


eighteen

by sunsetozier



Series: milkshake [2]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: M/M, and eddie gets SUPER anxious at one point, and richie is a crybaby bitch and weeps like a toddler but whats new, but it's all good!!, college applications are stressful and acceptance/rejection letters are too, technically there's a hint of angst because stan is anxious, this series is so fluffy it makes me happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-14 15:40:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18479263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetozier/pseuds/sunsetozier
Summary: The world’s not ending,Stan reminds himself, a repeat of Eddie’s words from the drive here.High school is ending, but not the world.So why does he feel like it might be?





	eighteen

**Author's Note:**

> i'm trying to decide if i ever want to put in Real Angst in this series or just keep the angst light and have most of it be fluffy? maybe i'll just throw in some hurt/comfort, who knows.
> 
> also i've decided that the one shots are going to be covering every two years (sixteen, eighteen - two year gaps) and i'm not sure how far i'll go or if i'll skip any years, but that means this will definitely have a lot of installments, which is why i'm not too worried about making the one shots longer - altogether, this series is gonna be very long, but the individual installments will probably all be between 4k and 10k, depending on how things go, but most will most likely be around 5k words, like these first two have been.
> 
> anyway, i hope u like this!! i wrote it super fast because i got motivation for it yesterday and i think it's pretty fuckin cute so!!

            Stan, for his part, manages not to freak out while he gathers his various letters into a little pile, safely tucks that pile into his backpack, and pulls on a sweater that he’s sure doesn’t belong to him, jeans that aren’t comfortable enough, and shoes that Mike gave him as a birthday present last year. Just for good measure, he puts some sweatpants in his bag, as well, and a shirt just in case it ends up being too warm for a sweater. Or, more likely, in case he starts feeling suffocated by the fabric and needs to change.

            He still doesn’t freak out when Eddie shows up, in his shitty Oldsmobile that his grandmother handed down to him. Instead, Stan just grins at the sound of a car horn outside, tosses his bag over his shoulder, and makes his way down the stairs, barely remembering to shout a vague goodbye to his parents on the way. In fact, he almost forgets that he’s suppressing a freak out when he sees his boyfriend waiting for him, with his cocky little confident grin (Richie’s rubbed off on him a lot) and the soft little waves of naturally light brown hair fading into the bleached blond that Stan and Richie had done for him over the summer – a look that they’ll be begging to bring back this summer, for sure.

            “How many letters do you have?” Eddie asks as soon as Stan slides into the passenger seat, reaching over the center console and taking one of Stan’s hand in own. Usually, if the street was empty, they’d throw caution to the wind and share a quick kiss anyway, but there are kids walking to school right now that’d spread the word if they saw a thing. Plus, it’s supposed to look like Stan and Eddie are also going to school today, even though they definitely aren’t, and hovering too long by the curb in front of Stan’s house might be a bit too suspicious to his parents, if they so happen to be looking out the window.

            Not that his parents input has much of a say in anything now. He’s legally an adult, after all.

            But Eddie’s words remind him that something big is happening today, something important and scary and hard to face. He almost freaks out then, at the mere reminder, but he doesn’t.

            “A lot,” is Stan’s answer, simple and quick and not at all anxious. “Fourteen or fifteen, I think.”

            “You didn’t even count them?” Eddie whistles, pressing on the gas and going down the street, taking the next left to make it look like they’re headed towards the school, because Eddie usually picks up Richie before he picks up Stan and it would look out of place if they were obviously going to Richie’s house now. He takes another left after that, though, to loop back around so that they can make their way to the place they’ll actually be all day. “Richie’s right. You’re more nervous then you’re letting on.”

            Stan scoffs, which is just a sign that Eddie is right and he doesn’t want to admit it. “Am not!”

            Eddie grins, not judgmental or negative or condescending or anything like that – he just grins, a knowing sort of grin, a loving sort of grin, and squeezes Stan’s hand once. He then parts his lips, likely to say a comforting Eddie saying that always somehow manages to help Stan calm down, but then his eyes flicker down to Stan’s outfit and his nose scrunches slightly. “Is that my lucky sweater?”

            And things feel normal again, at least for a moment.

            When they get to Richie’s house, the only other car in the driveway is the beat up truck that his parents got him, the one that hadn’t worked once since the day they brought it home. There’s been plenty of days where Eddie’s taken the initiative of trying to take a look at the damn thing, as he’s the most knowledgeable in the way of cars and engines out of everyone they know, but even he has always backed away with his hands in the air and a shake of his head, insisting that it’d be easier for Richie to send it to the junkyard and start saving up for a different car. The one thing that truck is good for, though, is signaling if anyone else is home – if the truck is parked alone, that means Went and Maggie are gone.

            Usually, Eddie parks by the curb, just in case one of Richie’s parents comes home and wants their usual parking spot, but he pulls into the driveway today because he knows that they’ll be heading out around noon to go to that diner a couple miles down the road leading to Bangor, past the Derry sign and hidden in a little parking lot that’s often overlooked by people driving by. It’s better than the diner that in Derry, because very few people really know about it, meaning that the folks there are regulars and know the three of them by name as well as order. By the time either of Richie’s parents get home, they’ll either still be out and about, or Eddie will have his car moved over to be parked by the curb.

            “The world’s not ending,” Eddie says chirpily as he takes the key out of the ignition and reaches into the backseat to pick up his own backpack, letting go of Stan’s hand in the process but making up for the loss of contact by flashing him a warm smile. “High school is ending, but not the world.”

            “A lot can happen in between now and graduation,” Stan quips, pushing open the passenger seat and flicking the tip of Eddie’s nose before climbing out of the car. He hears Eddie snicker before the driver’s door opens, too, and then Eddie’s head is popping up to give Stan an unimpressed look, to which Stan shrugs his shoulders and adds, “I’m just saying! The world could end before high school does!”

            Eddie rolls his eyes, but that dumb little smile he has when he’s trying not to look as amused or fond as he really is plays at his lips, and all he does is retort, “Don’t be so fucking dramatic, Uris,” before he spins on his heel and marches his way towards the front door.

            “Says the self-titled drama queen of the self-titled losers club,” Stan snorts, but he shoulders his bag and follows after him, bounding up the front steps and reaching around Eddie to push open the door. Then, just to add to the bit, he bows fully, gestures into the house, and puts on one of Richie’s stupid butler voices to say, “After you, your majesty!”

            All Eddie does is flick Stan in the nose – both in retaliation for the stupid theatrics, as well as payback for Stan flicking his nose mere moments earlier – before he makes his way inside with an excited little pep in his step, Stan right on his heels, closing the door behind them. Instantly, they can hear the music coming from the kitchen, as well as the familiar smell of pancakes, bacon, and whatever else is being cooked up. Eddie shakes his head, sharing an amused little smile with Stan, before linking their hands again and leading the way to the kitchen, just as the final chords of whatever song that had been playing fades away, replaced with the intro of the next song.

            Ever since digging through the attic and finding a bunch of his parents records full of older music, ranging from the 20’s to the 70’s, Richie’s been obsessed with playing every song. He’s been going through the decades for months now, bouncing back and forth between them a kid playing hopscotch. Recently, he’s been on a kick for the 50’s – specifically on love songs from the 50’s, which he’s been blasting on repeat at every given opportunity. Today, it seems, is no different.

            Stan and Eddie come to a stop in the entryway between the living room and the kitchen, watching as Richie, clad only in a pair of flannel pajama pants and fuzzy socks, begins to swing his hips overdramatically to the song. His hair is predictably disastrous, his glasses crooked and bags under his eyes, clearly having just rolled out of bed no more than fifteen minutes ago – a luxury that comes with having parents that both leave for work before he even wakes up for school, giving him the ability to just sleep in rather than having to get ready like Stan and Eddie. Plus, Maggie and Wentworth are fairly understanding parents and, while they would initially scold Richie for skipping school like this, after being told the reason why the three of them are skipping today, there’s no doubt that Richie would be free of whatever lecture that Stan is guaranteed to have, or the window-locking, key-hiding lockdown that Sonia will try to pull on Eddie, despite the fact that Eddie has copies of all the keys and refuses to be put in lockdown anymore. Still, there’s a reason they always come to Richie’s house, and that’s most of it.

            _And they called it puppy love,_ the speakers of the boombox sing, clearly having been dragged down from Richie’s room and carelessly thrown on the kitchen counter for no reason other than to play the mix of 50’s love songs that Richie’s obsessed with. From his place in front of the stove, flipping pancakes and still swaying along, Richie sings along, crooning out, _“Oh, I guess they’ll never know!”_

            “I think this one’s his favorite,” Stan stage-whispers to Eddie, a half-smile, half-smirk sort of thing playing at his lips, tone laced with heavy sarcasm. Eddie plays along, widens his eyes in some sort of faux-wonderment as he nods along, but he doesn’t say anything, just leans against the wall, tightens his hold on Stan’s hand, and appreciates the dedication that Richie always puts into these little performances.

            _How a young heart, how it really feels,_ the song goes on, Richie bobbing his head along and turning off the oven as he adds a final pancake to the top of the stack, all balanced precariously on a plate sitting on the counter. His voice isn’t as overexaggerated as usual, still scratchy from sleep, but that doesn’t stop the effort he puts into each word, each lyric. _And why I love her so._

            Picking up the plate, Richie spins around, only startling slightly at the sight of Stan and Eddie watching him, but that surprise melts instantaneously into a wide grin as he sets the plate of pancakes on the kitchen table – right between a plate of bacon and a plate of eggs – before he saunters forward in a way that looks way more ridiculous than appealing, taking both of their hands and tugging them forward as he loudly sings, _“And they called it puppy love, just because we’re seventeen—”_

            “We’re eighteen,” Eddie cuts in drily, but he does it with a smile.

            Richie shrugs a shoulder, as if to wave away Eddie’s words with a _minor details_ sort of dismissal, and pulls them in even closer, until he can wrap an arm around each of their shoulders, going on with the song to coo, _“Tell them all, oh, please, tell them it isn’t fair… to take away my only dream…”_ Suddenly, he drops to his knees in an unnecessary dramatic display, one hand gripping each of their shirts as he belts out, _“I cry each night, it’s tears for you! My tears are all in vain—!”_

            “Jesus Christ, Richie,” Stan laughs, helplessly tugging at Richie’s arm to try and get him back on his feet, though he already knows the effort is in vain. When Richie wants to put on a performance, there’s little that anyone can do to get him to stop. Still, Stan tries, telling him, “Get _up,_ asshole.”

            _“I hope,”_ Richie goes on, unbothered by Stan’s actions or Eddie’s amused huff of a laugh. _“I hope and I pray, that maybe someday! You’ll be back, in my arms once again!”_

            It’s such a stupid thing, it really is, but it’s the exact kind of stupid thing that Richie loves to do, and it’s the exact kind of stupid thing that Stan loves to see Richie do. Plus, Stan has been suppressing his freak out since his alarm went off this morning, and this is exactly the kind of distraction he needs to ease his nerves that he refuses to admit he has. Which is why, when he tugs on Richie’s arm again, he does it with a wider grin, and he asks, “How can I dance with you if you’re on the floor?”

            Features brightening, Richie complies, instantly scrambling to his feet and taking both of Stan’s hands in his own – much to the dismay of Eddie, who instantly pouts at the loss of warmth when Stan’s hand is torn away from him. Richie just sticks his tongue out at Eddie childishly and spins Stan around, his voice more energetic than it had been as he sings, _“Someone help me, help me please!”_ He tugs on Stan’s hands, tugs him in until they’re nose to nose, and puts on a horrendously deep voice. _“Is the answer, is it up above?”_ Then, clearly too weak to resist Eddie’s continuous pouting, he detaches a hand from Stan’s and pulls Eddie into the mix, twirling them around and then letting them return the favor as he laughs through the rest of the verse, gaze dancing as he does so.

_How can I, oh how can I ever tell them?_

_This is not a puppy love._

            The verse repeats, this time softer, but Richie doesn’t sing along, just grins until his cheeks are red and the corners of his eyes are crinkled. “Talk shit all you want,” he says, the first thing he’s said that hasn’t been song lyrics so far, “but this song is so fucking good.”

            “No one said it wasn’t,” Eddie points out, though he uses his grip on Richie’s hand to pull him closer until he can effortlessly press their lips together in a quick little kiss. He pulls away with a scrunched nose, brows pinched together. “Have you not brushed your teeth yet?”

            “I was making breakfast,” Richie states simply. “No one brushes their teeth before breakfast.”

            Stan quirks a brow, amused. “That’s not even remotely true.”

            Withdrawing from Richie completely, Eddie bobs his head in a nod, tugs Stan in to kiss him, and then pulls back with a satisfied smile. “Much better.”

            “Okay, whatever, assholes,” Richie scoffs, rolling his eyes as he gestures dramatically at the table. “Did you miss the part where I said I was making breakfast? _Sorry_ that I wanted to do something nice for my stupidly cute boyfriends, who clearly just came here to bully me like a bunch of fucking—”

            “You can stop now,” Stan interrupts, shaking his head slightly in amusement before taking Richie’s face in his hands and guiding their lips together. It’s only a quick peck, but even that is enough to make Stan scrunch his nose as well, pushing Richie’s face away with a laugh. “Okay, no, I’m with Eddie here. I can’t kiss you until you brush your teeth. Jesus, what did you _eat?”_

            Spluttering hopelessly for a moment, Richie flounders for a response, only to point a finger at the closed refrigerator and exclaim, “But there’s orange juice!” He says it as if that helps his case in any way.

            Eddie shrugs, moving over to plop himself at the table and waving a dismissive hand through the air. “You don’t have to do it right now,” he says, looking at the food on display with a little glint of excitement in his eyes. “But if you expect any congratulatory kissing when we’re opening up our letters, you should probably brush your teeth as soon as we’re done eating.”

            At the mention of the letters, Stan feels his stomach drop, the weight of those unopened enveloped suddenly tripling in his backpack. He tries not to let it show on his face, but he does take off his bag and carelessly toss it onto the counter for later, which is an action that Richie instantly notices. Thankfully, Richie knows Stan well enough not to question it, instead just intertwining their fingers and huffing out a half-assed, “Fine,” to Eddie while he leads Stan to the table. “Letters later, though. I’m fuckin’ starving.” Which isn’t much of a distraction, but Stan appreciates it nonetheless.

            _The world’s not ending,_ Stan reminds himself, a repeat of Eddie’s words from the drive here.

            _High school is ending, but not the world._

            So why does he feel like it might be?

 

 

 

 

            Out of the fourteen (not fifteen, Stan can now surely say) letters he got, nine of them are acceptance letters, three of them are notices of being waitlisted, and two of them are rejections. A good ratio, he knows, but he’s not worried about how many acceptances he has. He’s worried about where he’s been accepted, and if his acceptances align with the two boys sitting next to him.

            Richie, the genius that he is, got into every school he applied to other than one, which he takes in great stride. “I only applied there ‘cause the pops wanted me to,” he explains with a shrug, tossing the envelope with the neat little Harvard stamp to the floor carelessly. “I wasn’t expecting to get in anyway.” He says this like he hadn’t explained it to them already, when the three of them were hunched over in Richie’s room and working on their college essays and applications together, but neither Stan nor Eddie bother to point that out, knowing that Richie had been hoping to get accepted for the sheer ability to be able to wave the letter in front of Went and make his dad proud. Went will be proud regardless, but Richie is picky like that, wanting to please his parents in the most specific, most tiring of ways.

            Eddie, on the other hand, did not apply to as many places, and therefore only has ten letters to sort through. For the first time since picking Stan up, he doesn’t appear confident, doesn’t have his cocky little grin or his relaxed attitude that is only partially fabricated. No, he looks much like he did when he was thirteen and still riddled with the simplest of anxieties, chewing nervously on his thumb nail and staring at the letter splayed out on the carpet in front of him. Stan and Richie got into three of the same schools, and having five potential schools that are all close enough to be reasonable, and Eddie’s starting to realize that he shouldn’t have chosen to go last. Why did he volunteer to go last?

            “The world’s not ending,” Stan says, settling a hand on Eddie’s knee. He’s been repeating that phrase in his head for the past hour, and he’s almost sure that it’s the only reason he hasn’t had a breakdown. Eddie gives him a slight smile, lets out a slow breath, and nods once.

            “Yeah,” he murmurs. “You’re right. I know you’re right.” But he keeps chewing on his nail, keeps nervously flicking his eyes from letter to letter, uncertainly obvious in his wide eyes.

            Richie reaches over, gingerly wraps his fingers around Eddie’s wrist and carefully tugs his hand away, until Eddie can no longer chew on his nail anymore. “We make it work,” Richie states when Eddie looks at him, in the serious tone of voice that he doesn’t use often. “That’s the deal. It doesn’t matter how, or where, or what-fucking-ever. No matter what those letters say, we make it work, somehow. We find a way.”

            For a long moment, Eddie doesn’t move, just looks between Stan and Richie, looking on the brink of either bursting into tears or throwing up, but then he nods again, breathes out a little, “Okay,” and picks up the letter closest to him with a steady hand and a determined glint in his gaze.

            Out of the ten letters Eddie has, seven of them are acceptance letters, one of them is a waitlist, and two of them are rejections. And, from those seven acceptances, two of them are schools that both Stan and Richie have been accepted into. From those two is their collective top pick, the school they had all discussed the most and decided that, if they all made it, it’s where they would want to go.

            There’s a moment of silence, three pairs of eyes trained on those printed out words in disbelief. They don’t breathe. They don’t move. They just wait, frozen, for the information to settle.

            “Oh my god,” Eddie breathes, the first to process it. He drops the letter to the floor, presses his shaking hands to his knees, and sucks in a sharp breath that only serves to make his heart thud louder and faster in his chest. His mouth feels dry but his eyes feel damp, and all he says is, “We’re going to UCLA.”

            Instantly, Stan moves, leaping forward to tackle Eddie to the ground while Richie lets out a choked off sort of half-laugh, the sound incredulous. “Holy shit,” is all Stan can get out, his eyes watering as he presses a grin to Eddie’s neck, arms encircling around Eddie’s shoulders. He says it again, and again, and again, a mantra of elation – “Holy shit, oh my god, oh my _god.”_

            Eddie grins, too, blinks up at the ceiling with a deep inhale and a shaky exhale. There are words bubbling in the back of his throat, stuck somewhere between his Adams apple and his tongue, and he doesn’t know what he wants to say, but he finds himself cut off by a rough sob. Instantly, Stan and Eddie snap their gazes to Richie, who has a genuinely happy smile playing at his wobbly lips, and he just shakes his head, lets out another sort of laugh that tapers into another sob, and buries his face in his hands.

            _“Baby,”_ Eddie coos, waiting until Stan has moved off of him before he sits up, the two of them both reaching out at the same time, Eddie resting a hand on Richie’s elbow while Stan gently wraps his fingers around Richie’s wrists. Comforting each other has become second nature, a skill they had possessed before dating one another but have perfected over the past two years – and Richie, especially, who is perhaps the hardest the comfort due to him pushing back his feelings until they all come bubbling out at once – but comforting a happy-tears Richie is infinitely easier than a genuinely upset Richie.

            “Show us those pretty blue eyes,” Stan murmurs, tugging lightly on Richie’s wrist, a soft smile pulling as his lips. His stomach feels alive with butterflies and his heart is pounding and he feels good, on top of the world in a way he hasn’t since the day he stepped up and kissed these two idiots for the first time. It’s a scary feeling, a big feeling, but a good one, a welcome one.

            Richie sniffles, but he lets Stan guide his hands away, revealing his bloodshot eyes and his still uneven smile and the genuine joy etched into his features.

            Smile growing, Stan uses the pad of his thumb to wipe at the tears on Richie’s face. “Hi, pretty.”

            “Fuck off,” Richie snorts, as he always does whenever that name is used for him, but he leans into the point of contact, his eyes fluttering shut and a happy little sigh brushing past his lips. “I’m good,” he says after a moment, feeling as Eddie intertwines their fingers and uses his other hand to start plating gently with Richie’s hair. “I just found out that I get to go to college in California with my two favorite people in the world, I think it’s expected for me to cry a little.”

            “You cry way more than a little,” Eddie retorts with a grin, leaning into Stan’s side and resting his head on Stan’s shoulder, the angle a little awkward and definitely uncomfortable, especially with them having been sitting on the floor for the last thirty minutes. Richie scoffs, feigning a look of offense, but Eddie just shakes his head and promises, “That’s not a bad thing. I kinda like that you’re the crybaby.”

            Stan nods in agreement. “Especially since you only really cry in front of us, so that makes you our special crybaby that we get to take care of. Plus, you’re stupidly cute when you cry. It’s unfair.”

            Barking out a little laugh, Richie clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and admits, “I guess I can live with that, since you two looks like weird little aliens when you cry. I can be the crybaby.”

            “That’s just uncalled for,” Stan states, flicking Richie’s ear with a huff of a chuckle.

            Richie grins, clearly not sorry. “Can’t deny the truth, babe.”

            “Okay, hold on,” Eddie cuts in, suddenly sitting up ramrod straight with his eyes bugging out wide, glancing between his boyfriends with a dropped jaw. “Do we have to live in dorms the first year? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure they don’t put three people in one dorm.”

            For a moment, there’s no response. Then, simultaneously, Stan and Eddie raise their hands and point at each other, shouting out, “Dibs!”

            “Hey, wait a second!” Richie complains, swatting at their hands and jutting his lower lips out in a pout. “Why do I have to get stuck rooming with a stranger? That’s such bullshit!”

            “Maybe Bill got in,” Eddie offers, not very helpfully, sharing a grin with Stan. “Or Mike. He applied there, too, I think. Bev and Ben are both going to New York, which means that Bill might actually go to New York instead, but still. It might not be a stranger, is my point.”

            Richie huffs, crossing his arms over his chest and carelessly flopping himself back to lay flat on the carpet, lower lip jutted out in an overdramatic pout. “But I wanna room with you two! Do you not realize how long I’ve been dreaming of sharing a room with you guys? Seriously, like—”

            “It’s not like you won’t just be in our dorm every night,” Stan interrupts, flicking Richie in the knee and giving him a big smile. “You’ll still share with us, you’ll just technically have another dorm, too. Your roommate will either love you for being out of their way all the time, or they’ll hate you, but it won’t matter, ‘cause we’ll still be squeezing on a tiny ass bed in a cramped dorm room. It’ll be good.”

            There’s a lapse in silence as Richie considers this, brows pinching together and lips pursing in thought. Then, clearly not too disgruntled to begin with, her shrugs his shoulders and pops up to his feet with a grin, the only sign of his previous emotional state being the slight tear stains on his cheeks and the hint of red in his eyes. He holds a hand out to each of them invitingly, brows raised, and asks, “How about we worry about rooming situations later, and go get some milkshakes to celebrate instead?”

            “You just want a sugar rush, you fucking addict,” Eddie snickers, but he takes Richie’s hand and gets to his feet as well, both sets of eyes shifting to look down at Stan. And Stan, in some ways, knows that there’s still plenty he could freak out about – the transition, the weight of balancing an already complex relationship that the rest of the world may consider farfetched and way too abnormal while also trying to maintain college, choosing majors, getting jobs, moving out of dorms and into apartments and houses and planning for futures that might be too hard to plan together…

            But, for now, Stan doesn’t think about that, the what if’s and the maybe’s and the doubt’s. He just grins, lets Richie pull him to his feet, and takes the victory he’s been given today – the victory of knowing that the end of high school isn’t holding an end for them, even if the rest of the world might be. For now, he has his two stupidly cute boyfriends, and he has their traditions of milkshakes and kisses and cuddling on a couch that’s too small to fit them, and that is more than enough.

**Author's Note:**

> the song in the fic is **puppy love** by paul anika  
> let me know why u think!!
> 
>  **tumblr:** lo-v-ers  
>  **twitter:** lo_v_ers


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